


The Only Reason Why

by Eureka234



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234
Summary: Hannah has second thoughts about her suicide plan. One shot.





	The Only Reason Why

I want to tell you that the story ends here, that I am dead. And these tapes, as much as I hate myself for making them, were not meaningless. I was, and still am, dead inside, despite this being the second day out of hospital. I almost ended my life. You’re listening to the tapes now because it was never about attention. It was about trying to avoid attention. I wanted it to go away. It sounded so peaceful to be dead - no more jocks telling me they’d love to have a firm hold on my ass, no girls telling me I’m a slut or a liar, not being able to convince others of the truth because they too firmly believe the lies. I wouldn’t have to be silenced over and over because no one can listen with an open mind anymore. Everyone’s looking forward for when they can interrupt with their version of the story, and just because it’s theirs they think it’s more real. I suppose I never believed mine was important at all, but I want to believe that it can be important, if only a little bit and to one person.

It’s hard to talk about this, after putting so much certainty into the thought that this is the end. I believed that after I made myself bleed to death I won’t have to face the consequences for any of this. No one will hurt me anymore. If you can’t understand the appeal in that, then you’ll never understand me.

I went into my bathroom, switched on the lights besides it being early afternoon and ran the bath. I pretended I was trying to relax after a hard day, despite having a blade at the sink where my toothbrushes were. I undressed slowly, thinking about what I was about to do, wondering how much it would hurt, then I tried not to think about it at all. I had to give this my all, really give it my all, and I’d make something better and not worse.

This determination cleared my mind as I stepped into the hot water. It was just a bath and I so happened to have a weapon in my fingers, like it was a plastic toy that would float on the surface and make me have fun somehow. I felt absolutely nothing as I clicked the blade up a few places. The echo of that click toughened my resolve, like loading a gun. As I pressed it against my wrist, and dug as hard as I could, tearing the skin, I pretended I was cutting somebody else. Justin, the guy who spread the rumours about me sleeping with him; Jessica, my friend who took his side and not mine; well, you know their names. It didn’t stop me from crying and panicking from the pain and adrenaline, my breathing as frenzied as when I almost missed the school bus, or when I saw Jess get raped.

You know what’s weird? It can’t be compared to when _I_ was raped. By then I think I had already had enough and people’s cruelty didn’t shock me anymore. That’s sad, isn’t it? Because rape is nothing more than a slutty girl wanting it, right?

I had two cuts, but it wasn’t deep enough, despite the rivulets of blood painting patterns on the water like foam on the hot chocolates I used to buy. It was only a small amount of red– think of a blood nose after being punched in the face.

I hope I haven’t scared you by giving you so many details, but I need to let you know. I need someone to understand how close I was to ending it all.

The pain hurt like nothing I had experienced before, stung more than if you poured a packet of salt on a wound. From that by itself I wanted to stop it. I thought maybe this was a stupid idea. This wasn’t a new thought for me. I managed to end it by thinking _it is for the best_ , _no one cares_ and it was _the right idea_. I prepared the blade against one of the crevices that were jagged and a mix of purple and brownish red. I plunged the wrist underwater. As the blood loss, wooziness and clamminess drained me, it became harder to think clearly. My mind filled with pictures, not words, impressions and not language.

The amount of pain I was in, the emotional kind, reminded me of the party where you and I kissed, Clay - where we were so close to doing something more. That’s not the part I recalled. I went to the pain, of how the good moment ended. I stopped you, I told you to fuck off even if I said it was okay minutes earlier. That wasn’t right, though I blamed you for not realizing something was wrong.

But you did notice. You were careful to make sure everything was okay, and insisted I explain what was happening. You did everything right. I did something wrong. I turned my back on you. I’m sorry about that.

I suppose you could call this experience an epiphany. I suddenly realized that as much as others have hurt me, you didn’t do it maliciously. You did exactly what I told you to do – fuck off. And that was my fault. I shouldn’t expect others to know what I really mean if I don’t say it. I don’t know. Sometimes, it would just be easier if our minds could be read.

I put the blade to one side of the bath, not bothering to retract it. I clasped the palm over my wrists and pressed them together as hard as I could, trying to catch my breath, trying to think through the fog of faintness.

Clay.

It was only a flicker of a thought, but underneath was a stream of more thoughts and logic I couldn’t reach. I had all the feelings and nothing else. I knew I was sad but nothing else.

I remembered how bewildered and hurt you looked when I pushed you away. I remember what shadows the light formed upon your face, and the lingering taste of your lips on mine, the warmth of your skin, even the bed, and how relieved and excited it had made me before it went wrong.

I knew this meant something but not what.

Awkwardly, with one hand still pressing on my wrists, I brought the hand of my lacerated arm to the knob with ‘hot’ written on it, turned it left, and then right. I kept turning it right, slowly, and did not stop until I met resistance.

All sound faded away like my lucidity. 

The last drips from the tap created ripples next to me and instead of the chaos of water crashing against the surface, there was a numbing silence. I brought my arms back underwater, felt the warm numb the sting but not the deeper ache.

Leaning my head towards my knees, I sat still for a long time, probably longer than I would have needed to if I hadn’t slit my wrists and could think properly. I felt drunk, like at the party, the place where so much happened that I want to forget. I was sort of crying but not really crying at the same time, mixed up and lost. I hated hearing myself breathe, obnoxiously loud in the echoing bathroom. I hated that I felt more alive than ever, in a place where I had decided I was about to die, jumbled up and numb.

More vivid images and sensations imbibed me. When I stopped resisting Justin in that hot tub, it was long after he had forced himself inside me. That was the moment when it stopped hurting. Maybe I had grown to believe that giving up was how life stopped hurting too.

A different panic halted my breathing. I couldn’t stop the blood. As hard as I pressed against the wounds I was still losing drops. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think about what to do. I listened to my pulse race and tried to think about how the thought of Clay made me put the knife away, and what about Clay was stopping me from picking it up again. What was it about you that was keeping my palm against my wrists?

Another worry arrived. _Mum. Dad._

I knew they would get back from work in an hour or so and they’d want to know what had happened. How would I tell them, if I even did? They’d want to help. I tried to ponder on if that was what I wanted.

I cried louder, helpless, as the weight of _not being dead yet_ , and the possibility of _wanting to live_ hit _me._ It hurt me more than anything I described in the other tapes. Living was so hard. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. There was no way I could like this.

 _Fine,_ I thought, in some messed up clunky way, _if you’re going to die, do it properly. Apologize to Clay for pushing him away. You owe him that._

I had to hide what I had done to my parents. I kept the water there, although I didn’t move the knife. I had time to get back there and die if I wanted.

I got out of there awkwardly. I half crawled out of the bath so I wouldn’t crack my head open from how dizzy I was. Shivering and spreading water everywhere, I struggled to the bathroom cabinet. I searched through the draws, rushed, and found a few band aids but no bandages. Terrified, I grabbed the smaller hand drying towel and wrapped it around my wrist tight, using the draw string of my dressing gown to hold it in place.

Having the intention to return quickly, I let my body drip water all over the tiles as I wrapped my towel around me and left to my room. I locked the door and removed my phone from the charger. It took longer to reach the phone icon as I wanted with all the water droplets distorting the touch screen. Inhibitions all but gone, I clicked to Clay’s phone number and held it to my ear.

“Hey,” You answered, “Hannah, how are you?”

“Honestly? Not good,” I responded, trying to remove emotion from my voice. I couldn’t though.

You sounded as politely confused as normal, a bit slow, Helmet. “Really? Uh, did you want to talk about it or something?”

“No,” Now I was crying. “Clay I am sorry if you want me to leave like everyone else.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t think that.”

“I only called because I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. Like really. I’ll leave you alone for as long as you want to, forever even, the rest of your life. I’ll be fine, just tell me you understand I’m sorry, alright?”

“Wait, don’t go,” you said in a rush, “What’s going on? Are you crying?”

“Like you care if I’m crying,” I snapped, without it sounding as snappy as I intended.

 “I do care. How can you say that? I’m asking you why you’re crying,” you said, then to the silence, “Okay you don’t have to tell me that, but can you tell me why you’re apologizing? I don’t get what you’re talking about. Really.”

As the ache became a sear underneath the face washing towel and I felt blood trickle down my arm and onto the carpet, my throat burned too. “I don’t know how to explain. I can’t think right now. I need to go. Just tell me you understand what I mean, even if you don’t,” I said, “you’ll understand one day.”

“But… I want to know now,” you said, losing your confidence, “Hannah, I am serious about this. What is happening?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” you demanded, “Are you worried of getting someone in trouble?”

“I…” I hesitated, then, “Yes.”

“Who?” you asked.

“Me,” I answered.

A long silence paused and I wondered if you had hung up. But you hadn’t. _You_ wouldn’t do that.

“Look, I want to help but it seems like you don’t want that, so if you wanted to apologize, okay, but it would be so helpful if I knew what precisely you felt bad about.”

“You already know.”

“No, I don’t.”

 “At the party.”

“What about it?”

You sounded so scared, almost as much as me.

The tears fell unimpeded now. “I didn’t mean to yell, get mad, whatever. How I told you to fuck off. It wasn’t meant for you.”

“Thanks, but… honest answer or not?”

“Honest.”

I am surprised you’re apologizing,” you admitted, “I thought you’d never forgive me for what I did. I was frightened I had done something wrong or it was my fault. I’m relieved.”

I was so convinced you hated me the truth felt… like giving up wasn’t so easy. For a second, I forgot about all my tapes and the friends who had let me down. Only now can I grasp the full relief of this statement.

“No, it’s not your fault,” I said, “It’s all my fault. I just… was thinking about bad stuff and I let it out on you. I’m so sorry about that.”

“I think I forgave you as soon as it happened,” you said, confused, still sounding like you couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t want to lose another friend.”

I didn’t realize until afterwards that a true friend was all I wanted. Someone I could trust. Someone I could tell this too.

“You haven’t, Hannah.”

My heart pounded so loud, and yet I felt myself drifting in and out of consciousness. “I might.” I hesitated, “You could lose me.”

“Why?”

“I’m… going away somewhere. It’s for the better. Trust me.”

“You’re acting scary and weird, Hannah.” A pause. “Was the party all you wanted to talk about?”

“No,” I sobbed. A pause. “I want to tell you everything but I can’t say anything.”

Your desperation and earnestness made me feel worse. “You can tell me now.”

“You’ll freak out. Forget it.”

“No, if I’ll freak out its more the reason to say.”

“You don’t get it-“

“I’ll tell you something freaky. I almost threw a brick into Justin Foley’s face the other day.”

I don’t know how I managed to laugh. “I was looking forward to the brick shaped bruise on his head. It’ll complete his look and make him nice and ugly.”

You laughed too. “You think he could get a brick _shaped_ bruise?”

“It’s perfect,” I paused, “God, you’re going to hate me for saying what’s really happening.”

“Unless it’s that you’re marrying Justin tomorrow, I don’t think so.”

I laughed. “I’ll… only tell you…. If you promise you won’t freak.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“You bet.”

I took a few deep breaths before saying, “I cut myself really badly on my arm -like… it was an accident, no big deal- the only problem is I can’t get it to stop bleeding.”

I’m not sure you believed my lie. The silence went on a touch too long. “Shit, that must be pretty bad.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“First aid - do you have bandages?”  

“Been there, done that,” I breathed, “I did that but it won’t stop. Clay, I’m really scared.”

“Like… how bad is it?”

“I’m about to pass out.”

“Oh my God, Hannah, have you called 911?”

“N-no. I’ve been too busy…”

“Fucking hell-”

“…trying to stop the bleedi-”

“-Call 911 now then!”

“I can’t.”

“Jeez, what kind of injury - why not?”

“I’m scared to,” I admitted.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. My parents will hate me.”

“No they won’t. Stop talking like that,” you said, “They wouldn’t hate you, even if it was something crazy, like on purpose.”

I couldn’t help it. “You would think that’s crazy?”

“It’s crazy because its crazy levels of _bad_ ,” you said, “Anyway if you won’t call 911, I will.”

“Wait, no, Clay!” I called.

“What?”

“Help me.”

“I’m trying.”

“How do I explain to my parents?”

“Think about that later.” I heard movement. “What’s your address again?”

“I’ll tell you if you don’t leave me.”

“I’ll call 911 and call you right back.”

“Use your landline,” I advised, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not at home.”

“Damn it.”  I told him my address.

“Sorry, I’ve been avoiding home most days. Hold on, I’ll be back.”

I should have said straight up what the situation was. I know. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry about that too.

I’ll never forget the break between when you hung up and when you were going to return the call. I thought you’d abandoned me and you were associated with all the stupid boys again. Then I remember how you felt in my arms and I was convinced enough to stay in the room. I knew then that I should go to the bathroom and hide the knife, empty the blood tainted water, but I was worried I’d fall over or lose the last of my resolve and jump in again.

I stayed where I was, pressing my cloth into my wrist for a moment, before deciding it was easiest to change into pyjamas. I did so slowly, remembering what Clay said.

_Worry about your parents later._

Only Clay didn’t call back. Not for a lot longer than I thought. I tried calling him but the phone was in use and I couldn’t get through. I waited for seven minutes.

My ringtone went off.

“Hannah?”

“Clay. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Sorry it took so long. The ambulance didn’t want me to hang up. They’re outside the door now. Can you open it for them?”

“I thought they could break it down.”

You laughed. “Maybe if the house was on fire. Are you getting up now?”

Rustling. “G-Give me a moment.”

I felt so dizzy I thought I would vomit when I sat up. The scent of blood made it worse.

“You still there?”

I started crying again as I stood to my feet and picked up my phone. I was as coordinated as someone who had drunk too much. “Don’t hang up on me.”

“I’m still here.”

I didn’t speak again until I had left my room. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You kidding me? It’s good to hear _yours_.”

“Thanks for picking up the phone in the first place,” I said.

“No problem.”

“What… do I do with my parents?”

“Tell them the truth.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, I don’t get exactly what happened, but I could tell them if you want me to.”

“Um, that’s an idea, sure.” I reached out to the front door lock. “Only decent in theory though. I’d have to explain why there’s a blade next to the bathtub.”

You hesitated. “Err, why is there a blade next to the bathtub?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I unlocked the door with difficulty and had trouble looking at the two tall ambulance guys in the eyes due to humiliation and grief.

“Are you Hannah Baker?” one asked. He looked like he could kill Justin Foley in one punch.

“That’s me,” I said, pointing to my wrist.

The second man of likely Middle Eastern ethnicity gestured to the phone while the other one pulled something on wheels from the vehicle. “Is that your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Can we just tell him we’re here?”

“He probably heard you,” I said, while I handed the phone over anyway.

Probably noticing I could hardly walk, the first man pulled a stretcher to me, made me lean against it, clipped a binder thing across my chest, and legs and used a mechanical lever thing to put tension on these sections, keeping me in one spot, before pushing me into the ambulance. It all felt weird, calm and clinical considering the intensity of the situation. Meanwhile it looked like the thing Hannibal from Silence of the Lambs was put in.

“Your friend Clay said you hurt yourself somehow,” one of the Ambulance men said, looking at my wrist dispassionately, “is that it?”

“That’s it,” I replied dully, paranoid about the neighbours seeing. “Can I keep my phone?”

“Later,” the man said, pulling the phone from my fingers and placing it in one of my pyjama pockets, “Sorry, can’t have you moving with that much blood loss. I’m going to clean this and re-bandage it. Looks deep. You’ll need stitches.”

“Whatever,” I said, then reluctantly, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

I didn’t feel grateful at all. It was a politeness. There was still a lot of work to do. This was likely going to start another snowball of horrible rumours about me.

I am not willing to give life another chance, not yet. Life and I aren’t on speaking terms yet, let alone good terms. I don’t know what to do about school, or the counsellor, anything.

But I gave myself a chance to admit a mistake and get back up. I gave you another chance. It’ll keep me here for now, until we can figure out what to do about an unfair world that is full of dumb boys and evil girls. I need to thank you, Clay, for being the only reason why I’m still here, the one reason to counteract all the others.  You’re the only person I trust not to hurt me on purpose. You’ll still hurt me -not believing so would be stupid- just not like that they did.

I don’t have any right to ask this, but it would be great if you could call me when you’ve finished these tapes. It’ll be nice to get a milkshake, and give the honorary cheer of “FML” before we gulp it down.

Thank you, with all my empty heart, for listening to the tapes, Clay.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this similar to how Hannah narrates the show. Let me know if you liked it. 
> 
> I could sadly, like way too many people, relate to some of the struggles Hannah faces in the show. My partner at the time was the only one I believed would care if I was gone, so with these thoughts in mind, I wanted to apply them to Hannah and Clay. 
> 
> Please reach out to somebody if you feel like Hannah, even if it's online or over text. These things are hard to talk about. Just do it however you are comfortable.


End file.
